


No he isn’t

by coeurgryffondor



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: F/M, Hetalia Countries Using Human Names, Monaco's long string of lovers, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-02
Updated: 2019-11-02
Packaged: 2021-01-20 16:35:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21284798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coeurgryffondor/pseuds/coeurgryffondor
Summary: Did they remember he had been among their rank? The corridor is a line of double portraits, her beside each of them in their turn: Antonio, Lovino, Arthur, Gilbert, Berwald, Roderich of course… and him.
Relationships: Monaco/Russia (Hetalia)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 1





	No he isn’t

**Author's Note:**

  * For [citronlyrique](https://archiveofourown.org/users/citronlyrique/gifts).

He had bought her this apartment. Did her other lovers know that? Did they remember he had been among their rank? The corridor is a line of double portraits, her beside each of them in their turn: Antonio, Lovino, Arthur, Gilbert, Berwald, Roderich of course… and him.

Their portrait hangs together in the moonlight as he waits for her to return.

“Here,” and she flits past him, small and delicate, to open a door onto the balcony. He follows without word or protest, not enraptured as he once had been — it has been too long since those days — but curious nonetheless.

No one can see them from the balcony: it had been part of what had drawn him to the apartment. Below them was Monaco-Ville, Monte Carlo visible in the distance, La Condamine bustling with ships even at this late hour. Now there are other wards too but he does not know their names, not yet at least, though he can see where the shape of Monaco has changed.

And it’s not just the land: as Ivan settles into his seat, she sits on the table before him, leaning provocatively against the wall, her chest pressed forward to strike that oh so perfect pose with her female figure. No wonder so many of their kind, and their kind’s leaders, had fallen under her spell.

Behind her is a pack of cigarettes; she draws one from the carton, holding it between two fingers in that tantalizing manner she has, her arm stretched out towards him. “Take care of me?” she murmurs and he smirks, shifting to draw his lighter from a pants pocket.

“I thought you didn’t smoke anymore,” but he lights it all the same, becoming aroused at the sight of her drawing the lit cigarette to her lips, wrapping painted red lips around it and inhaling, her eyes falling closed in sensual pleasure.

“I try,” she exhales, a plume of smoke escaping her mouth. They both settle in. “But it is oh so hard to resist… old temptations.” Her eyes flit from his face, down his chest, to his groin, before coming back up with something wicked and wild in her features.

Ivan leans back more, spreading his legs, feeling himself grow hard. “Oh, I know.”

“You tease me.”

“That’s rich, coming from the coquette.”

She laughs at that, throwing her head back, her loose hair falling over her shoulders and back. The buttons of her blouse are open down to her bra, revealing beautiful pale skin; one leg slips over the other in her pencil skirt, and he can see the lines of her long, thin legs trapped within the fabric. “I always was a rich coquette.”

Each finger has a gold ring on it, sometimes two or three when the rings are delicate like her. Her watch is gold, and has diamonds on its face. From her neck hangs a delicate gold chain with small diamonds in it, falling between her breasts. Her ears bear the diamond and Alexandrite studs he had bought her years ago, so that he would always be with her.

She watches him study her, and though his eyes return to her face, they’re drawn away again as one petite hand runs along her jaw up to an ear, fingering the earring, the Alexandrite ring he had given her glistening on her hand in the artificial light pouring out from her apartment.

“Always?” he asks.

“Always,” she assures.

No matter what had happened, no matter how he had changed and they had broken — he had always been with her.

No more words follow after that, the Monegasque staring out over the water below her, smoking her cigarette indecently and yet so womanly. He had taught her how to do that, because Francis had felt it would be unbecoming of his sister and Roderich had preferred his women not to smoke.

But she was never his. She was never theirs. And maybe she had never been Ivan’s, either, but together they can pretend she once was, a fairytale of their own.

The Russian lets his eyes trail down her body, imagining how she had once been: corseted, coiffed, perfumed, restrained. He would be lying if he said that hadn’t appealed to him, a woman kept from her full potential, kept by a man, kept under chains; it had always appealed to him, in all the women he had loved, from Erzsébet to Anna to Yi Ling to her. The fire contained, the way a woman’s eyes would glimmer when insulted, how they would move against him in his bed — it was what Ivan Ivanovich wanted. Not someone motherly and agreeable like his older sister, nor devoted and falsely demure like his younger one, but a woman who perfectly portrayed ideal womanhood on the outside while containing multitudes of possibilities on the inside, if only their world would free her.

“You like?” she asks, and it takes him a moment as he ponders what he can see through her white blouse to realize she had spoken in Russian, lovely and perfect as he had taught her. She jabs her cigarette into an ashtray, reaching her other hand out to draw one of his to her body, hooking his finger in her blouse’s fabric where the first done up button is. “You know I’m yours.”

How many men has she said that to? How many have lived in her fairytale? She’s an enchantress, powerful and dangerous, able to destroy a man if she so desired: no one took Antonio seriously anymore, after all.

His fingers begin to undo her buttons, his other hand moving to rub himself through his pants. The Monegasque removes her gold-framed glasses, setting them down on the table, her watch following after as if she wasn’t being stripped by a man she had last been intimate with nearly a century ago.

The thin black lace of her bra hides neither the flesh of her breasts nor the pink of her areolae, her shirt falling nearly off her shoulders as a gentle breeze passes over both of them. Ivan would have been content there had his lover not reached out one wrist, the man taking the hint to undo her cuffs’ buttons as well, watching her slink the shirt off her body as if it was nothing and not probably more expensive than all of the clothing he was currently wearing together. Porcelain and fragile are her arms, her waist impossibly thin even now.

Ivan groans, making her smirk.

She rises then, and though he is the taller one, the larger one, it is she who towers over him in his chair, their eyes locked until she turns her body from his. His gaze falls down her back to the zipper of her skirt which she slowly pulls down, letting the fabric fall down those soft hips of her, that ass he loved to grab, to pool around her high heels. With practice, she steps from her skirt, back towards the apartment, with only a quick look over her shoulder to invite him to follow.

He grabs the watch and her glasses out of habit, closing the door behind him as he follows her perfume down the hallway to her bedroom.

To their bedroom.

She sits on the mattress’s edge as he enters, laying back and arching her body as he approaches. If there is seduction, it is this: not in cautious flirting but in knowing another so well that there is no need for words. Not as he stands at her feet, watching her twist her arms above her head as he removes his clothing, their eyes taking in the other without apprehension or hesitation. The dance is practiced, his body leaning over hers, arms sliding under her back to hold her close. At that she presses her breasts to his bare chest, arms wrapping around his neck.

“Ivanovich,” she breathes, always so formal, even now as she draws his head down to kiss. What little fabric they still wear slides against exposed skin, hands exploring, hips moving together, against each other. He gets her bra off without breaking their kiss, her lithe hands sliding beneath the band of his briefs to grope at his ass.

He pulls back, smiling at the groan that elicits from her. “Miss me already?” She pouts.

“It’s cold.”

“It’s always cold in Russia.”

“You are a cold man.”

“Not with you.”

One arm lazily reaches up, a finger tracing from the corner of his mouth, down his jaw, down his exposed chest as he sits back between her legs. It covers pale skin and scars alike, her eyes never changing — there is no fear, no regret, no momentary pause.

She’s a stronger woman than that.

He helps her out of her heels, her feet flexing like the dancer she is once they’re freed, then removes the rest of their clothing. There’s a pause where he contemplates lifting her to lay her down properly under the sheets, but it’s discarded when she reaches out for him.

It’a always been so hard for a man to deny her anything.

Her sigh of sweet pleasure as he enters her is heaven itself to his ears, her mouth on his jaw and neck and collarbone driving him wild. How he had missed this, missed her, over the decades between when he had last seen her and now. Her legs wrapping around his waist feel just right, and her body presses against him in a way that fits as if they were meant to be, her back arching, her breathing changing, her little sounds of pleasure shifting to nonsense. Neither was tall or short in their bed: they fit together just right, as if made for one another.

Her favorite breast’s nipple is caught between his lips, his tongue teasing it the way she loves, when she comes around him, screaming his name so loudly that he’s sure her neighbors will have heard. And that pushes him to the edge, pounding into her, as she grabs his face for desperate kisses as he finally comes, filling her and sighing deeply.

They lay together for a few minutes, her arms wrapped around his neck, fingers tracing lines on his back; she was the only woman he believed when she said she liked the feeling of his body laying atop hers, the weight of him pressing her down, keeping her grounded.

His pulse is still loud in his ears, his body coming down from its high, when the phone rings. “Excellent timing,” she says in a level tone such that he cannot tell, even now, if she’s being serious or sarcastic: Bonnefoy for a day, her brother liked to say, Bonnefoy for life.

He withdraws from her, rolling to the side and watching her shimmy across the bed to answer the phone — an old fashioned table top one, no doubt meant to keep Roderich “what do you mean it’s not 1870 anymore?” Edelstein happy. But the breeze from open windows as the sun sets is more pressing than her “hmm”ing and “oui”ing, the man rolling around until he can lay under the sheets, a hand stroking her back.

“Yes… yes… well… hmm… bof.”

He still loves her: he can’t not. Not when they fit together so well, complimented each other so well. Their highs were high and their lows involved a lot of poisoned letters and assassination attempts, but that suited them.

Did she love him? Did she want him above and beyond the rest of her lovers?

“Braginski?” she asks and his ears perk, his hand pausing. “What about him?” She looks at him with eyes that are neutral and guarded, so uncommon a sight for him after they’ve just made love. He can’t hear who’s on the other side nor follow the conversation from her words. “Would that upset you?” and it’s almost as if her words are for him and not the phone, some response coming that gives her a laugh as one large hand reaches up to finger an Alexandrite earring. “What, Ivan Braginski? Don’t be ridiculous: no he isn’t.”


End file.
